Ii

To-night the thoughts of you drift round my bed Like thistledown; I weave them into rhymes; And as I fall to sleep I hear their chimes Building sweet music high above my head, And prayers and poems all in praise of you; And, happy in my fading dream, I say: “There will be something ready with the day To send to her, to speak for me, to sue.”

But when the morning comes, the nimble words Have fled into the air like frightened birds, That answer my soft whistle with a scream; And only the recalcitrant thoughts remain; The baffled blind desire to find again The accents that were docile in my dream.